"Thou shouldst hate me, if, to win thee, I bowed in pretense to thy
God," he said weakly.
Perhaps his words awakened a hope or perhaps they made her desperate.
Whatever the sensation, she raised her head and spoke with a sudden
assumption of calm:
"Naught could make me hate thee, Kenkenes, but I should know if thou
didst pretend. Thou art as transparent as air. Thou art honest,
guileless--too good to be lost to the Bosom that must have thrilled
with joy when he beheld what a beautiful soul His hands had wrought.
Few of His believers have conceived the greatness of Jehovah as thou
hast, O my Kenkenes. In that art thou proved ripe for His worship.
Thou hast found His might to be so limitless that thou thinkest thyself
as naught in His sight. In that hast thou gone astray. The mind is
gross that can not heed the weak and small. Shall we say that the
spinner of the gossamer, the painter of the rose is not fine? Shall He
forget His daintiest, frailest works for His mightiest? Thou, artist
and creator thyself, Kenkenes, answer for Him. Nay; not so! He, who
hath an ear to the lapse between an hour and an hour, hath counted His
song-birds and numbered His blossoms. For are they, being small, less
wondrous than the heavens, His handiwork? Shall He then fail to hear
the voice of His sons in whom He hath taken greater pains?"
She paused for a moment and looked at him.
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